


Promises To Keep

by Bekaylo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Injury, Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, HYDRA Husbands, Jizz Residue, M/M, Nudity, Self Confidence Issues, Slight Use of Vulgar Language, Social Anxiety, Suicide Pact, mentions of Suicide/Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bekaylo/pseuds/Bekaylo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack worried about Brock a lot. He worried about the future, for both of them. They could not stay here, buried in the woods forever, eventually they would have to face the choice of running again, or allowing their past associations to catch up with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises To Keep

**Author's Note:**

> "The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." - Robert Frost.
> 
> Inspired by Loyalty by linguamortua.

The day started okay, chopping wood was much easier for Jack now and he was pleased with his progress. Double handed grip and he was still built to swing an axe that way. It was rewarding and therapeutic. When he returned and came around the side of the house, with his new logs, his carefree mood clouded a little. .

Brock was always pleased for him, proud of him, encouraged him and believed in him. Most of his enthusiasm seemed to go into Jack proving himself capable and the more it did, the less he had for himself. He was sitting cross-legged in the yard, shoulders slumped and picking at the seam of his sweatpants with a stiff hand. A combination of scar tissue, nerve damage generally - and today perhaps the cold - had made his movements more forced and less graceful.

Jack worried about Brock a lot. He worried about the future, for both of them. They could not stay here, buried in the woods forever, eventually they would have to face the choice of running again, or allowing their past associations to catch up with them. For several weeks there had been small things, flashes of light in the distance, one of the staff in the store slipping in a question or two. Tire tracks in the road, actually receiving mail once. Jack had not mentioned them to Brock.

The mail could have been a lifeline in some ways. All he had to do was respond a certain way and there would have been a solution to some of Brock's problems. Gene therapy, serums - all Brock would have to do would in return be to act as a Fist of Hydra, with that Crossbones suit. He had told Jack that had been the deal, originally, which was how he had come by it.

Jack wondered how displeased they might be that Brock had used it to go off in his own sweet way and rescue Jack, then disappear for months with him. They might feel the need to ensure he was more reliable in future by altering him, wiping him even. Jack had always dreaded something like that might happen. Brock had too.

Jack knew his limitations. He could defend himself despite his disabilities. His adult lifetime of firearms and combat training meant he was still more competent at those things even now than the average member of the public. But he knew he would never be of much use to anyone except as an instructor.

Use. Used. That was all they had ever been and where had it got them? A life in hiding, after serious injury, permanent physical damage for both and serious psychological trauma for Brock. This was the crossroads, where the life in hiding would change to a life on the run, or a return to what they had sworn to avoid.

Six months ago, Brock had put on the gauntlets from his suit to practice and punched a hole in the tree in the yard. Jack had swallowed and made himself say some encouraging nonsense.

Brock had studied the gauntlets for a moment, turning and flexing his fingers in them, then surprised Jack by pulling them off and dropping them. “Too big a price to pay,” he said and walked up to Jack. “You like tinkering with things like that. Take it apart, Jack.”

“What’s that? You want me to customize it? I ain’t Tony Stark,” Jack had a love/hate relationship with Brock’s Crossbones armor. It was the reason he was still alive, but he had too many nightmarish thoughts of Brock being turned into something like an Asset to not have a bad feeling the few times Brock had ever put it all on. Brock did that sometimes, to make use of the compensatory strength it gave him. To feel powerful again after a morning workout reminded him of how diminished the injuries from being crushed and burned under a helicarrier had left him.  
It was his scarred appearance that hurt Brock the most overall, but nonetheless his nightmares about falling and burning were distressing for Jack to wake up to.

Jack put his arms around Brock’s waist and pulled him closer, forcing their hips together to give a subtle grind. Sex was a good distraction for both of them.

Brock surprised him a little once more. “Take it apart and see if there’s anything you could use for your bike,”

Jack was slowly and leisurely reconditioning a very old motorcycle. No rush, just something he liked,to do and could still do. It was not like he was ever really going to test it out, other than the occasional small run somewhere with Brock riding pillion, now and then.

Brock nuzzled Jack’s neck lightly, already starting to react to the subtle grinding of Jack’s jeans on his soft sweatpants. “Then we take the rest and bury it.”

Jack opened his mouth in surprise and was subjected to a downward pull from Brock’s arms around his neck. Then he was momentarily silenced by an enthusiastic kiss with that wicked tongue of Brock’s. It promised a remembered world of pleasure. When Brock broke that off Jack stared at him in wonder; his eyes were shining with a zest he rarely showed for anything apart from sex and those rough, stiff hands grasped Jack’s face either side affectionately.

“Let’s bury it in the woods,” added Brock.

“Sure,” said Jack. He was relieved and surprised and it was clearly a catharsis of some kind for Brock. They took shovels, Brock wearing some of the suit and Jack carrying the helmet and some of the remaining parts. He had stripped it and squirrelled a few microelectronic things away for the bike. That would be a new challenge for him.

Brock removed the parts he was wearing and threw them in the hole they had dug. Jack joked about a striptease act, then felt a slight contrary tug of second thoughts about throwing the helmet in. That was the face that brought him back to life, that white, skull-like embellishment on the metal helmet.

“Throw it in, Jack,” said Brock. Jack complied, the real face that saved him was right next to him, that beautiful familiar pointy little face, with its scars and sculpted cheekbones.

“If they ever come for us, I want you to kill me,” said Brock, abruptly, after they had covered the impromptu grave of the outward image of ‘Crossbones’. It was as if a chill fell on the summer evening for Jack, he shuddered. “Bury me here,” added Brock

“Shut up,” hissed Jack. “That ain’t funny,” He knew very well Brock was not joking, “Fuck,” he added and wiped his forearm over his face. Sweat from the dig.

“Jack…” Brock slid an arm around Jack’s waist.

“If it comes to that, I won’t be around to - bury you.” Jack exhaled emotionally.

Brock smiled as if Jack had just said the cutest thing. “I know, but you would if you could? And you’d do us both if things got like that?”

“Whatever you want,” said Jack, solemnly and kissed Brock’s temple, resting his forehead there while Brock leaned into that a little. A pact was being made, really, in principle. They had decided there was nowhere else they would rather go, or ever rather be, than here.

 

Brock’s breath came out in a cloudy gust with a deep sigh of the kind he produced too often, this morning, in the woods.. He must have been working out. He did so every morning, but spent a longer period of quiet, sad reflection afterwards every day. That was, on the one hand, the best time to map out what to do each day. There were no arguments, just acceptance.

Once Brock would throw in anything from a smart remark to a downright objection on principle to Jack mapping things out. They both knew the outcome would be doing exactly what Jack suggested but Brock just had to chime in with something contrary for the sake of his pride, or to provoke Jack into ‘making’ him comply. Brock was quiet and complicit these days and sometimes Jack missed the old contrary routines.

Sometimes he could hardly believe this was the man he had been with all those years, the old Commander Rumlow Jack knew he had moulded, the posturing little fucker of their private lives. Let alone the man who had blown a building apart to reach him, the knight in Crossbones armor who had saved his life.

Though he knew he should be grateful for what he had, sometimes he missed the old Brock. That little fucker presented real or fake challenges to liven up his life. A life now punctuated with overcoming physical challenges was only spiced with a growing need to bring Brock ‘back to life’.

Throwing his armful of logs down by the house Jack came and sat down with him. He reached out and brushed the remaining knuckles of one hand over the nearest sculpted cheekbone and raised a tiny smile on that familiar, pointed face. The watery winter sun highlighted Brock’s deep, melted scars. But he was still beautiful to Jack.

“Wanna come to the store with me?” asked Jack. “Looks like more snow,” he squinted up at the yellow sun and grey clouds to illustrate. Brock followed his glance and nodded.

“We should get stocked up,” murmured Brock. His voice was slightly hoarser than it used to be - smoke damage to his vocal cords from burning fuel. “Get lunch in town?”

That was quite a breakthrough, Brock wanting to stay in a public area any longer than necessary.

“We’re gonna be cooped up again by the look of that,” added Brock. He was thinking of Jack, it seemed. Jack had acted like he was cooped up, pacing, finding small things to do around the house, the first few days of the first snowed-in season here.

Jack nodded and touched his forehead to Brock’s temple briefly.

Brock’s skin was cold. Jack had an aching flashback to sun and chlorinated water, a contented Brock half-floating, feeling warm under his lips and hands, smelling of diluted Axe and sun lotion naked in a swimming pool. Brock was not comfortable now with total nudity outside the house - even in summer, even with Jack. Ripping towels off him or tugging at his boxers were still a joke he tolerated when there was sex involved, but he covered up again afterwards.

As winter deepened, Brock had even more covering, typically, beanie hats, caps, hoods up and scarves wrapped around his lower face that remained on inside shops. He often looked like he was about to rob the grocery store at face value, eyes lowered, avoiding interaction. Brock let Jack interact with the shop staff long after they were used to him. Quiet man who trailed the tall man around the stores, occasionally darting in front or to the side and throwing something into the cart that caught his eye. The taller man was called Jake, he had fingers missing, a lazy eye, a scar on his chin and he was polite and unassuming, as far as the staff were aware. The other hardly said a word.

They knew his name was Broccoli or something and he looked like he had been in an accident. He seemed harmless, flustered if addressed directly while Jake sometimes looked desperately sad, usually just redirected conversation to himself. Jake had been overheard calling him ‘Pookie’, ‘Rum’ and ‘pain in my ass’ at different times and it was assumed they were an item.

That day Brock was willing to get a late breakfast in town and later on back home, he made them pancakes.

 

Inactivity had always made Brock slow his pace and now, with aches and pains he rarely complained about, he was downright sluggish by most evenings. Content to lean against Jack in front of the fire while Jack read books, happy to suck Jack off in the firelight and fall asleep in his lap while he played games. Sex was always good, sex had always been a consistently reliable point of communication within their brand of ‘togetherness’.

Jack was insatiable after regaining the ability to get a hard on. It was the one thing that had returned to a satisfying physical normality. He had the best fuckbuddy he had ever known with him, day in, day out. Brock and his scarred skin were a landscape Jack hungrily explored, from morning wood time to evening make out time and various times in between.

Brock was still beautiful to Jack and that helped. Still the same shape and overall form, whatever he felt about himself. He was still more than tolerant of Jack waking him up at night for a fuck. Jack, getting up for pain meds or bathroom and returning to a sleeping Brock, curled up with his back to him,often ended with Brock waking up to hands and fingers and a hard as diamond Jack-boner. Well, that ass and the cute peekaboo of a ball sac between his thighs was just too much to wait until morning for, Jack found. Brock didn’t mind at all.

Every evening Brock spent time painstakingly massaging Jack's leg with its orthopaedic metalwork. Jack would lie on the bed and Brock would kneel up next to him or astride his other shin, massaging and manipulating the muscles and joints from knee to toes. Jack’s leg would be out straight, then bent up, to flex it and perfuse the muscles and ease his aches in all positions. It also served as a form of physical therapy for Brock’s nerve damaged hands.

They were generally naked for this exercise. It provided a lot more fun that way, Jack sitting up towards the end of the session, to watch Brock’s fingers and arms at work, and be temptingly near to his olive presence. To reach out and stroke Brock’s back and shoulders lightly and watch his soft dick, resting like a chubby, sleepy worm between his thighs, responding and stiffening for him.

Jack could still turn Brock on with a look or a casual walk across a room, quite unintentionally, He always had and Brock never tired of him. They could eat each other up; they frequently did, with hungry nibbling and thirsty cock-sucking. Jack could stroke Brock for hours, just to watch the still defined muscles jump under the patchwork of scars. The were whole areas of undamaged skin and areas at the edges of where grafts had been sited,which seemed more ticklish than before.

Jack had tried to train Brock long ago to keep still and co-operate with gentle treatment that still aroused him. Jack took it very seriously. A giggle, a wriggle or bitching that Jack was taking too long getting him ready resulted in a warning slap on one of Brock’s softer muscular areas. Which resulted in more suppressed laughter disguised as more bitching and a very hard Brock.

All of which made Jack more resolute in taking it slow.

These days he conceded more and balanced things with momentarily lifting the skin on Brock’s belly or ass between his teeth - more pinch than bite. Jack enjoyed the squeals and Brock was kept entertained with that kind of stimulation while Jack kept him waiting.

Jack liked to take a long bath in the evenings, it eased his aching plated leg and foot. He refreshed boiling hot water until the tank was empty now it was winter. Brock tucked in sideways and half on top of Jack easily in the large tub, albeit with Jack alternating which of his long limbs could no longer stay submerged when Brock dozed off again sometimes. This dozing was a sign of contentment, Jack kept telling himself. He hoped it was a sign of healing.

Brock usually left the bath first and went to moisturize. His skin was prone to dryness with the grafts and scars and baths left him ‘pruned’ he reckoned. At least he cared, that was again something. He was watching the evening’s fresh snowfall from the bedroom window when Jack joined him.

Brock turned his head casually at Jack’s approach, Jack was naked and glowing from the bath.

“Snowing,” observed Brock. “We’ll be snowed in again by morning,”

“Good thing we stocked up,” remarked Jack, reaching out with his right hand, which provided more of an enclosed grip on Brock’s wrist, to tug him towards the bed. “Good thing I cut firewood,”

Brock followed naturally, nodding. “Yeah, good thing,” he repeated.

Jack stopped by the bed, tugged Brock’s towel off with three strong fingers. Brock looked at it bunched around his feet with a bemused look on his face. Jack reached around, slapped his ass lightly and gave it a surprisingly thorough groping for someone with fingers missing.

“Come on,” he whispered in Brock’s ear. “You know what else is good about being snowed in,”

Brock did. He reached up and grasped Jack's upper arms, swept Jack’s ankles aside with a deft foot and let Jack’s half-surprised, chuckling weight topple them onto the bed.

Brock came alive for this, he still liked fucking, he still took it up the ass like a champ. Ever since Jack regained the ability to get it up and keep it up he had wanted to make the most of it and Brock was more than obliging. If Jack wanted to fuck him hard and fast Brock bucked his hips back into him and egged him on “More, more, please, Jack, harder, fuck,”. If Jack wanted to take it slow and sweet Brock arched his back and ground his ass against Jack,as if slowly swallowing him whole from behind moaned. He made beautiful noises whatever happened. It was life affirming and possibly the best quality sex Jack had ever had.

Tonight, with the snow falling softly outside, Brock wriggled back into Jack as he spooned him.

“It’s cold,” he said, blinking at the snowflakes. “Cold out there,”.

Jack, one arm already encircling Brock’s ribcage with the hand caressing the opposite shoulder, considered. Brock felt warm, flushed with sex and shared body heat, a decidedly damp ass nestled into Jack’s lower abdomen and a sweaty hand clutching his wrist.

“It’s warm in here,” replied Jack, sleepy now, nuzzling Brock’s shoulder and increasing the firmness of the hug, as pulling him any closer was impossible.

“Mmmm,” murmured Brock. “Yes… yes it is,”.

 

_The snow was still falling, illuminated for a few inches in the window frame by the bedroom lamp. The darkness was complete outside the house. All Jack could see were those few inches, as he lay spooning Brock. That was as expected._

_What was not wholly unexpected was the additional flare of light from above._

_From the bed, Jack knew the lights meant it was over. Whoever it was coming - and he could hear movement, imagine them black-ops-ing their way around the house, he and Brock were better off not finding out. Brock was sleeping in his arms, Brock would never know what happened._

_Jack imagined them bursting in, guns, dragging them out of bed, to separation in confinement at best, to execution possibly either way. Summary execution here, Jack could visualize the startled Brock with his hands on his head, imagine how he, Jack, would feel and react when they kicked him, black bagged him, how he would tear himself from whatever restraint he was under to shield him with his body and how Brock would scream his last moments away when the firing started and Jack was the first to go._

_That was not going to happen. Jack thought of the wine he had bought on impulse when he was looking at the whiskeys in the store earlier that day, annoying jingling music piped through the speakers for the season. It was silly, but it had Italian writing on it and it made Jack think of Brock’s Nona that Christmas eight years ago… Brock would have appreciated the gesture tomorrow._

_Jack reached swiftly under his pillow, gripped Brock tighter, earning a beautiful contented sigh from him. He pressed his face into Brock’s neck, kissed it and sealed their deal._

_The intruders heard a shot, a pause, another shot. When they burst into the bedroom, they found the literal dead end to their hunt. The clock display on a bedside locker said 03.00. There was general muttering, assessment and someone said “Okay, bury them in the woods,”_

_In the corner of the screen a smaller LED display said 12-25-2015. It was Christmas morning._

Jack awoke with a start and registered at once that his bedside alarm was beeping loudly. With a curse he pulled his arm from around Brock, turning swiftly. There were the multiple tiny, hot needle stings of his skin and pubic hair detaching from the glue of dried semen on Brock’s ass. It added to the agitation and he cursed again, slamming a big hand down on the alarm clock, which jumped and ceased alarming, red display glowing softly in the sudden silence. 03:00 am. Jack blinked, rallying his thoughts now the reactions were over and fully awakening to a sense of skin crawling disquiet.

Brock meanwhile stirred and surfaced from sleep with a grunt. Turning around, he saw Jack settle on his back, sighing deeply and passing a hand over his face.

“Huh..? S’matter?” murmured Brock, sleepily, propping himself up on one elbow, blinking dazedly, but immediately on the alert for Jack’s welfare.

Jack looked at him in the light from the clock, his scars were less obvious, just the familiar sharp outlines of his face, beautiful bone structure thrown into relief in the shadows. Alive. Jack reached up and pulled Brock’s head down in the crook of his arm, Brock going with it and adjusting his position to allow Jack to hold him there. His head was resting on Jack’s shoulder now, Jack moving in to nuzzle his neck.

At one time that would have resulted in some degree of bitching, even though Brock would have ultimately accepted this treatment. Now Brock went into gentle carer mode, weeks of nursing Jack back to health had made him accommodating without the old protesting at being treated like a fucking fag. Brock slid an arm over Jack’s ribs and stroked his side soothingly.

“Bad dream?” he asked.

Jack nodded. “The worst,” he said, and told Brock what he had so vividly dreamed, in brief, halting sentences, sparing Brock the details of the potential summary execution, but stating that he had put a gun to the underside of Brock’s jaw, and fired. How he had felt a wrench, an urge to scream, the feeling like he had just ripped his own guts out and now his breath hitched. Brock kept up the soothing strokes of his hand down Jack's broad ribcage and long waist, a slight frown forming as Jack recounted the dream.

“It was so real,” Jack murmured. He was looking at Brock with the dazed expression he had worn the first few days after his rescue, when Brock had removed his Crossbones helmet and stood in the armored outfit anxiously watching while a Hydra medic dressed Jack’s injuries. Morphine had been kicking in and rescue-endorphins wearing off. Relaxing into confusion, focussing on the black and white figure to the left, a moment before the clarity left his green eyes until the next dose. Brock had rarely seen Jack so vulnerable, he had only just got him back and felt more protective affection for another person right then than he had ever acknowledged feeling.

Brock smiled reassuringly now, raising himself a little on his free elbow but staying in range to stroke Jack. “It was just a dream,” he said, “You must have been thinking about what we said in the summer.They wouldn't do that,”

“They? Who wouldn’t?”

“Hydra,”

“I didn’t say it was Hydra,”

“Who did you think it was? SHIELD? They’re not gonna get you again, Jack, we’re safe here,” Brock smiled broadly and nodded to emphasize his words, like he was encouraging a child.

Jack was vaguely amused at the role reversal that had been going on since his rescue, the mother hen - Uncle Brock - that surfaced for him frequently, despite Brock’s issues. Brock had been a STRIKE commander, after all, but when it was just the two of them it was Jack who did most of the pillar of strength stuff.

“How can you be so sure of that?” Jack looked concerned now. “Have you… you wanted to bury that suit and wanted me to - do that, off us both if they came. You said it was ‘too high a price’. Have you contacted them? Brock -”

Brock shushed him, rubbing his flank a little harder.

“It is, it’s too high a price right now. I just wanna be here, until we’re both better. In the meantime, they won’t let anything happen to us. They kind of owe us, Jack, all those years, that training...Captain Wood, years, the fucking mess we got left in,”

Jack tightened his affectionate headlock on Brock enough to close the gap again and nuzzle his cheek. He had never heard Brock mention any of those things all in one statement of how much Hydra fucking owed them one way or another. He had never heard Brock mention Captain Wood in any negative way at all. It was only Jack who had seethed at the thought of the old creep exploiting - abusing - the younger Brock, when they were fresh from training. Jack would have killed him had he known at the time what was going on.

“I got mail from them,” said Jack, gently, not wanting any opportunity for Brock to slip into his defeated mode again by brooding about the past. Jack had kept all the contact he had had with Hydra and the hints of surveillance from Brock - and it seemed Brock had done the same.

“So did I,” said Brock. “Didn’t wanna bother you,”

“Huh… me either,” Jack snorted softly.

“We’ve got like eight months, then they want me to… show some commitment.” Brock told him. “They got me out of the hospital, you know, Jack. I was in SHIELD custody before I was out of a coma. My feet were shackled to the bed before I was going anywhere. Hydra took care of me, got me out, further treatment - physical therapy, everything. I would have been in your situation otherwise. That’s how I was able to get you out. We owe them for that - but they owe us, too.”

“What about me?” asked Jack.

“What about you?”

“They don't need me, I’m no use,”

“They want you. They know damn well they want me, they get you. You’ve got years of expertise, you are valuable, Jack,” Brock nodded brightly again.

Jack sighed and tried to look like he believed that.

“I need the bathroom,” said Brock, patting Jack and disengaging his head. He climbed over Jack one leg at a time, maintaining contact between their naked bodies until both feet were on the floor. Despite the nightmare and interrupted sleep, Jack’s dick twitched and started stiffening at once. He playfully slapped at Brock’s ass as he straightened up.

“Make it fast,” said Jack.

Brock grinned and headed to the bathroom.

Jack stretched contentedly. It was good to be alive.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fix-it for Bury Them In The Woods, basically.


End file.
